License Invoked

by Robert Asprin

  “Is this going to happen, Augustus?” Eldredge Mooney asked. His voice was a low growl, like a bear awakened prematurely from hibernation. “People are beginning to ask me questions. They want to see results!”

  Kingston kicked back and put one polished black shoe on his solid, non-sustainably harvested mahogany desk. “Yes, Eldredge, it's going right on schedule. We all ought to be getting one powerful charge in the batteries tomorrow night. I can't wait for the rest of the Council to see the setup. I'm looking forward to having you all here.”

  “This is the first major test of the system, you know.”

  “Of course I know it! It's an honor to be the one to push the button, so to speak, and I am sure it's going to be a big success. I was just watching some of our faithful who are providing the charge that primes the pump, so to speak. This technology's just plain brilliant. The machines have been ticking over just fine on the reactions we're getting to the nut fringe. The indicators say we're already showing about eight percent feed, and that's without any input from out of town. Technology's wonderful, Eldredge. I don't know why we didn't have access to something like this before. And what with the Internet channels coming in line, we'll be able to blow anything we feel like right out of the water, so to speak. And, since naturally that's what we have in mind here, it's going to work like a charm.”

  “It only works if you have direct access to the subject,” Mooney objected.

  Irritated, Kingston puffed on his cigar, surrounding himself with a fiendish aureole of smoke. It was clear that they were underestimating SATN and the planning skills of its chief of administration.

  He had little direct contact with Mooney and the rest of the influential circle he represented. He'd met them on-line, in a private chat room on a black-magic website. Kingston had been amazed to discover that so many like-minded individuals turned out to live in his neck of the woods, although Mooney was the only one he had met in person so far. The others were holding back, waiting until he proved himself worthy of being one of them. Membership in the Elder Council of Deepest Evil, as they called it, was held out to him as a carrot—although a heavy stick was poised to fall on his back if he blew the chance they were giving him.

  Kingston was doing his best to make sure he wouldn't. He wanted to be a part of their number in the worst way. His fondest daydreams, even as a child, involved world domination. As a grownup, he'd be content just to increase his dominion to absolute power over those under his control, and that was what the Council promised. These men were the real deal. The satanists, cursers, death-talkers, all the wrongdoers who made CNN were pigeons compared with his long-distance comrades. These evil worshipers had discovered the power of high tech. The one inescapable problem was power. They needed it. The easy way to raise it was from a strong emotional surge from as many people as possible all at once. Fionna Kenmare put on a mighty powerful show. He'd seen one himself. If at a climactic moment something happened to her, the power released would be tremendous. That was what Mooney and his friends wanted, and he was poised to give it to them.

  “We've got direct access, Eldredge, I told you. We've got the perfect conduit to Fionna Kenmare. Our person on the scene guarantees that the link has been made. Has been for some time. We've been running little tests, and I've got to tell you, they've all worked.”

  “Wonderful,” Mooney gloated. “We can claim that she's being attacked because she espouses magic, never knowing that those attacks were just trial runs, and have nothing to do with her own wretchedly limited beliefs. Can the conduit be associated with you in any way?”

  “Our focus person picked the perfect accomplice, Eldredge. No one will ever be able to trace it back to us . . . or you. It's all so perfectly hands-off.”

  “This will mean big things for all of us, Augustus, especially you.”

  Kingston sat back and put his other foot up on the desk, and blew a long stream of smoke at the ceiling. He liked being appreciated. “That's the general idea, Eldredge.”

  “Well, I want an update later,” Mooney said, trying not to sound as though he doubted Kingston's word. Kingston knew the Council didn't want him to walk away at this point. Not with so much at stake.

  “You'll get it,” Kingston said. “And, oh, Eldredge, keep CNN turned on tomorrow night. They've always got the most current coverage of late-breaking events. Nice hearing from you. Say hello to the missus for me.”

  Chapter 11

  That evening Elizabeth circulated through the room, smiling and nodding to Beauray's arriving “specialists,” all the time aware that she was experiencing another facet of the surprisingly complex world that existed within the bounds of the French Quarter. While she had seen examples of “gracious Southern living styles” in various old movies, and had experienced a minor taste of it in her own room, she nonetheless found it impressive.

  For one thing, the surroundings were far more sumptuous than at any meeting she had ever attended outside of a great house or palace in the United Kingdom. Beauray had somehow gotten the use of a suite at the Royal Sonesta. (When she asked about how he could arrange it so quickly, Boo-Boo had simply shrugged and given what she was now beginning to recognize as his trademark answer: “I know someone on the staff.”) It reminded her of the nicer kind of private London clubs, but decorated in lighter colors. The main area was roughly the size of a volleyball court, and luxuriously furnished with overstuffed sofas and chairs as well as small cocktail tables draped with white brocade cloths. Heavy drapes framed the large windows which looked out onto the hotel's massive inner courtyard, and soft light was provided by several bright crystal chandeliers. An ebony baby grand piano stood underneath the window at the room's far end.

  The others in attendance seemed to take it all in stride, giving the room and its furnishings little notice and even less comment, choosing instead to focus on the well-stocked bar situated beneath a painting the size of a bed. She was pleased to see the bar herself. Comments from other friends who had come to American dos in the past had complained that Yankees threw big parties, but neglected to provide alcoholic refreshment in favor of soft drinks, as if all their guests were still underage. Fionna/Phoebe's eyes would probably have gleamed at the sight of the warm, mahogany counter lined with bottles of every size and shape, but she was locked up, shivering, in her suite with Lloyd. Elizabeth was sorry she was so frightened, but it kept her behaving. The issue was not only what outside forces would inflict upon her, but what Fionna could do to herself, given a free hand. For once she would have to settle for room service, and like it.

  As they waited for the last few stragglers to arrive, Elizabeth could not help but study those already present with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

  In her own home offices of OOPSI they held occasional staff meetings, and sometimes brought in outside consultants. There, however, the consultants were invariably either dusty academics or blustery bureaucrats. The main challenge was staying awake through the drawn-out lectures and discussions of procedures. This gathering, appropriately enough for New Orleans, had more the appearance of a costume party.

  Elizabeth accepted a sweet-smelling drink the uniformed bartender identified as a “Sazerac,” and surveyed Boo's gathering allies.

  “A few of my friends,” Beauray had said. Elizabeth tried to imagine what life would be like with friends like these. If she went back through her entire life of memories and catalogued every strange character she had ever met or come into contact with, the list would not be half as large or varied as the group assembling in the room.

  There were a large number of Blacks, both men and women, present, standing singly or sitting in small groups of two or three. One group was garbed in bright purple robes, while others were dressed in white and wore head scarves folded in elaborate patterns. From the night before she recalled the slight gentleman in blue jeans and a leather vest who carried an intricately carved wooden walking staff and wore a straw cowboy hat, ornately decorated with long feathers.

&nb
sp; The Caucasians in the room presented no less variety in their dress. Two middle-aged gentlemen who stood talking quietly together wore conservative business suits that would have fit in anywhere in the Central Business District. Others more casual in their dress sprawled on the sofa, their beards and embroidered tunics making them look as if they had just wandered in from a medieval festival or stepped through a time warp from a Viking mead hall. One statuesque blonde woman in a floor-length black dress glittering with sequins seemed to have come directly from a Mardi Gras ball. Also scattered about were a few individuals whose olive complexion, long dark hair, and bead necklaces hinted of the Great Plains Native Americans.

  The other noticeable thing was that, while they all might be friends of Beauray, there seemed to be little love lost between the various groups. Dark glares and muttered comments followed by unnecessarily loud laughter were increasingly frequent as more and more people arrived until Elizabeth began to worry that outright hostility would erupt if the meeting did not start soon.

  As if reading her mind, Beauray stood up and moved to the center of the room, clearing his throat loudly. In response, the crowd ceased their conversations and focused their attention on him.

  “I guess we might as well get started,” he announced. “Even allowing for N'Awlins time and being fashionably late, I figure anyone who isn't here already has either decided not to attend or got caught up in something more pressing.”

  There was a low murmur as everyone craned their necks to survey the room, doubtlessly speculating on who hadn't shown up as opposed to who hadn't been invited.

  “First, let me express my thanks and appreciation for those of you who have chosen to attend, and especially on such short notice. I'd have liked to give y'all more time, but there isn't any. Most of you know each other, at least on sight, and I don't suppose it's a big secret that not everyone in the room likes each other or agrees with some of the disciplines represented here. The fact that I would see fit to place you in this potentially awkward position should be an indication of how serious I feel the problem is, and how little time we have to try to come up with an answer.”

  That seemed to get everyone's attention, and they leaned forward in their seats, focusing intently as Beauray continued.

  “In a minute here I'll introduce my colleague from England, Miss Elizabeth Mayfield, but first let me give you the bare bones. There's an Irish rock singer, Fionna Kenmare, who's in town to give a concert at the Superdome tomorrow evenin'. There have been reports that she has been sufferin' from psychic or supernatural attacks, though there's some question as to whether or not they were simply publicity stunts. Anyway, Elizabeth and I are supposed to be checkin' it out, and protectin' her if the attacks are real. I don't know if y'all think it's good or bad news, but they are real.” Some murmuring met this announcement. Boo-Boo raised his voice slightly. “We've seen it happen ourselves. The problem is, what we've seen so far doesn't match anything Ms. Mayfield or I have run into before, so I thought we'd bounce it off you folks to see if any of you have some knowledge or experience that might help us.

  “First, though, I'll let Elizabeth tell you about what we've encountered so far. Elizabeth?”

  Originally Elizabeth had resisted the idea of her handling this part of the briefing, fearing that her accent would hinder communications, but Beauray had insisted, and as she enumerated the details of the afternoon's events, she found herself warming to the subject and to her audience. It was rare that she could speak as freely as she did about apparently supernatural or unexplainable events and have it accepted and considered seriously rather than having to fight to overcome scepticism and disbelief. To her relief and delight she saw many of her listeners nod to themselves as she reached various points in her narratives where she described but did not identify by name the magical processes she and Beauray had used.

  If only Mr. Ringwall could see her now!

  When she finished, there was a period of silence as the assemblage reflected on what they had heard.

  “You say this group is Irish and the first attacks happened in Ireland,” one of the men in business suits said finally, in an easygoing but ponderous way of speaking. “Is there any chance she's gotten sideways to some spirit over there that's followed her here?”

  “I thought about that,” Beauray said, “but I haven't picked up any signs or feelings of an extra presence around the group or around the Superdome.”

  “Too bad!” quipped the black man in the straw cowboy hat. “Otherwise we might be able to convince it to stay. The Saints surely could use the help.”

  That brought a round of laughter from the whole room.

  “How about a curse?” asked a stout black woman wearing a floor-length caftan and a plain, dark purple turban. “Maybe someone gave her somethin' that she's carrying around that draws trouble without her even knowin' about it.”

  “Naw,” said one of the long-haired Caucasians, with a gesture of scorn. “I never heard of no curse that could make anyone or anything burst into flames. It could make 'em sick or real unlucky, but to have something catch fire like that in front of a bunch of witnesses? That'd take some real heavy mojo.”

  “And you don't think the spirits are capable of setting fire to a sinner?” asked an old, old teak-colored man in a neatly-pressed suit. Elizabeth noticed a well-worn bible on the table near his elbow.

  “Now, now,” Beauray said, holding his hands up peaceably. “No one here is calling Miss Fionna a sinner. At least, no more than usual.” He managed to raise a chuckle from the warring groups. “Let's just put our heads together and see if we can come up with an explanation that rings true.”

  From there the talk broke down into a group discussion. Individuals began comparing notes, and various groups merged, then split and remerged with other groups as possibilities were posed and discarded. Boo was pleased to see that they could set aside their individual philosophical differences to concentrate on a problem. Even though only one person was in peril, and an out-of-towner at that, the greater matter concerned them all. He'd often thought that a council like this would be of great help to the Department, although the bean counters in Washington weren't too receptive to the idea. They wouldn't know how to catalog the expense. Too bad. This group was no weirder than any of the other think tanks going on in other places. Someone caught him by the arm.

  “Hey, Beauray,” said the tall Native American woman in the embroidered chambray blouse and silver-and-turquoise jewelry, “have there been any visible manifestations, apart from the fire and the scratches? Spirits? Faces?”

  From there the discussion broke down into specific details. Elizabeth and Beauray were both cross-examined numerous times on what they had experienced and witnessed, as well as asked to give their own views on some of the theories being broached.

  “Think someone's got a voodoo doll of this gal?” a voice rose above the crowd from a very stout woman in a flowered dress.

  “They never heard of voodoo over there in Europe,” another voice exclaimed, shouting down the first. It was a man, red-eyed with indignation. He felt in his pocket and came up with a yellowed scroll. “Demons, though. She might have a demon following her. Look here, I got a list . . .”

  “What you think you're doin'?” a woman with café-au-lait skin exclaimed with concern, rounding on him from a small group nearest the bar. She whisked a cloth bundle out of her purse and sprinkled a pinch of pale dust from it on the paper. “Even the names have power. You brought them in here!”

  The man and woman immediately fell into an argument, paying no heed to the others around them. The rest regrouped and began to talk among themselves.

  Elizabeth went from one cluster of people to another, listening and taking notes while she answered questions. Several forms of attack that Elizabeth had never even heard of before were all aired and reviewed by the gathered specialists with the seriousness of doctors consulting each other on a puzzling diagnosis. She made a mental note to ask Beauray about some
of the terms they were using, but for the time being, the focus had to remain upon Fionna and her problem. Time was an issue.

  After nearly two hours, the larger of the two men in conservative suits set his glass down on a table with a sigh. He raised his voice to get everyone's attention.

  “I'm hittin' the same dilemma over and over again, my friends. For a force to be powerful enough to have the effect Beauray is talkin' about, there must be some trace or indication of its direction or source. It's a case of conservation of energy, y'understand? Big effects call for big energy, and I don't see where it's comin' in, here. Nor why.”

  “That's the problem, isn't it?” Elizabeth said. “In real life, even the wizard Merlin could not simply wiggle a finger and move a mountain. There's far more to the equation than that. Both Mr. Boudreau and I should be sensitive enough in our own ways to detect any energy source strong enough to produce those spectacular results, but neither of us could pick up the faintest whiff of anything even fractionally powerful enough.”

  “Well, let's call a halt to the proceedin's,” Boo said, glumly. “I want to thank y'all for comin' today. I'd appreciate it if you'd try to think of anythin' we haven't covered. Y'all know how to reach me. And keep your eyes open for any display of energy that strikes you as new or unusual.”

  “We'll do what we can,” the café-au-lait woman said. She rose from the wing chair, laid a sympathetic hand on Boo's arm, and shook hands with Elizabeth. Her grip was firm, dry and comforting.

  “I'll tell everyone I know to intensify their personal alertness,” said the other man in a business suit. “We'll pin this thing down, Beauray.”

  “Thanks, Bobby Lee,” Boo said. “Thank y'all for comin'.” The room cleared quickly, as the peace of the watering hole was broken, and lifelong rivals hurried to get out before the shadow of the others fell on them.

  “I must say, that was a new experience for me,” Elizabeth said after the last of their guests had left. “Your friends were really quite helpful.”